


Shake Apart

by wholly_crepe



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War is hell, World War II, first fic in five years oh god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholly_crepe/pseuds/wholly_crepe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He made it all the way back to the outpost'</p><p>Bible Swan finally breaks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shake Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo! I'm the cheeky old-timer who asked the question on best_job_i_ever_had's tumblr (thank you so much for reply, by the way. So helpful!).
> 
> Please forgive the quality of this - when I hung my LJ out to dry five years ago I swore I wouldn't write again. But this goddamn movie just sucked me right in. I swear I wanna put something better together soon, but for now this is just a short little something to help me try and feel my way into these characters. With some over-emotional H/C. 
> 
> :/
> 
> Anyway, hi all! Please let me know if I'm doing this wrong x
> 
> \---

He made it all the way back to the outpost. It was a quiet ride, thank the Lord. Gordo and Red muttered lowly about something up the front, but Don and Grady kept themselves to themselves. So Bible was able to lean his face against the hatch and stare at the horizon, grimly keeping a hold of himself. Quietly holding the tear in his mind together like a medic in triage, to stop his soul from leaking out and disappearing into the mud of the roadside.

He didn’t know exactly what it was this particular time that had cut him loose. There’d been that last kid, tears streaming down his face as he opened up his tatty trenchcoat to reveal the grenades strapped to his belly. And there’d been T-5 Dunmore, hiccoughing blood and trying to get his legs under himself to move, to run, except his legs weren’t there no more. Bible had gone to him, taken his hand and asked him if he was a Christian, but Davey had just stared at him, nothing but panic in his eyes. And Bible couldn’t think, couldn’t recall if Davey was Catholic or Episcopalian or if he was fucking Jewish, he couldn’t think and the familiar words got stuck in his throat. Davey died thirty seconds later, and only then did Boyd remember – Baptist. Fucking Southern Baptist, Delta Dunmore, dead without one word of the Lord’s comfort.

Somewhere between a twelve-year-old Kraut martyr and Davey ‘Delta’ Dunmore’s empty eyes, Boyd Swan finally lost hold of it all.

They pulled in, and Bible disembarked steadily. He called over his shoulder that he needed a fag, that he was all out, that he was gonna see if he could get hold of some. Don didn’t say a word, and Coon-ass only called out after him to bring him back a pack. Bible waved his acknowledgement, but his hand was shaking so he dropped it quickly, clenched it at his side. He didn’t look back at them, kept his eyes ahead. There was an old barn just round the corner, where they kept the dead ones before they got the time to bury them.

 Nobody hung round there if they could help it, but Bible didn’t mind the dead. The dead were quiet. The dead were done with all their pain and their sorrow, and the dead wouldn’t see when he shook into pieces. Which he would, soon now. He could feel it coming over him, burning through him like a fever. He just needed to get out of sight.

And finally, he was. He rounded the corner into the dim of the barn. The smell was denser there, that charnel house sickly sweetness. But it was quiet and empty, and Bible could just lean his forehead up against the splintery wood of the doorframe, press his fists against the wall and choke out his first dry sob. And another. And another, hitching breaths coming faster and faster until saliva dripped out of his open, twisted mouth and he was crying. Hard.

“At home there was this chicken coop, out behind the house.”

“Shit.” He covered his face with his hands.

“I think Mom knew that was my hidey hole. Where I’d disappear to when Dad cam home from Dicey Riley’s and started shooting his mouth off. But she never followed me out there, she’d leave me be. I guess she was bein’ kind.”

“Collier, I swear-“

“She’d wait til I came in by myself. Wait til I’d snuck back into my bed, and then she’d come to me. She’d come in and she’d sit on my bed and she’d stroke my hair. Sometimes she’d sing to me, a little. Songs from where she grew up.”

Bible was shaking. It was too much. Don’s voice drilled into him like tracer fire, and suddenly the urge to lash out was nearly overwhelming. To kick and to bite and to tear. He groaned lowly, wetly. Through his teeth, he gritted out, “Collier. Don. Meaning no disrespect, but fuck off. Right now.” A fresh wave of tremors made his voice waver traitorously as he added, “Please. Please.”

“I can’t do that, Boyd.”

“FUCK OFF. NOW.”

His knees buckled and he folded, gracelessly, into the packed dirt floor. A big hand caught his elbow and he jerked, reflexively, trying to throw it off. But it was firm, guiding him around and away from the wall. Another hand came up to grip the back of his neck, forcing his face into Don Collier’s chest. And abruptly all the violence went out of him, like breath from a punctured lung, and he slumped. He pressed his face into Don’s neck and sucked in the hot, human scent of him. He bit down on the lapel of his jacket, let himself shake apart.

Don stroked his hand firmly down the back of his neck. He carded his fingers through Bible’s hair and hummed tunelessly against the shell of his ear.

When, some time later, Bible had recovered enough to be able to bear the weight of his own head, he lifted it away a little so he could finally catch his commander’s eye. Don was watching him, quietly.

“Please,” Bible said again, not sure what it was he wanted but desperate for it anyway. “Please.”

Don didn’t move for a moment, just kept right on watching him, his face unreadable. Then he lowered his head to press a dry, closed-mouth kiss to the corner of Bible’s mouth. And to the other corner. And to his cheek. And the space between his eyebrows. And to his upper lip. When he moved his mouth to Bible’s lower lip, Bible gasped and let his lips close on Don’s. Pulled him in ever so slightly. Don went willingly, and for some minutes Bible’s world reduced to the dry chapped mouth against his own, the heated puffs from Don’s nose against his cheeks, the sourness of the tobacco on his breath, the blurry flush of Don’s eyelashes.

Don stepped back, his hand falling from where it’d come up to cup Bible’s face. For a second his eyes pierced Bible’s, like he was searching for something. Bible thought he looked like a well, a deep well, fill to the overflow with some unnameable feeling, some awful, yowling grief. But a second later, the look dropped away, and Wardaddy was a blank slate again. He patted Bible’s neck.

“You haven’t eaten today, gunner. Find the mess tent and get something hot in you.”

Bible hesitated, watching him, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Wardaddy smiled with one corner of his mouth, and nodded back. Then he leaned in one more time to press the side of his head against Bible’s, his day-old beard scratching Bible’s face as he pressed one more kiss against his cheekbone. Then he pulled away, and left the barn.

Bible didn’t move for some minutes. Then he went to find the mess.


End file.
